


MultiFandom/MultiShip One Shots

by Writcraft



Category: Good Omens (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-28 17:44:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19817329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: A series of short one shots written after putting out a call for prompts on Tumblr and Dreamwidth. Each chapter is a different, completed fic, there is no connection between any of the chapters. If you want to skip to a particular pairing the ships relevant to each chapter are set out in the work notes below.Each chapter contains the specific ratings and content warnings applicable to that fic. Thank you to everybody who left prompts.





	1. we two boys together clinging

**Author's Note:**

> **Chapters by Fandom, Pairing**
> 
> 1\. we two boys together clinging (Harry Potter Fandom, Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy)  
> 2\. Reading Between The Lines (Harry Potter Fandom, Hermione Granger/Minerva McGonagall)  
> 3\. Me And The Moon (Harry Potter Fandom, Severus Snape/Harry Potter)  
> 4\. Like Lovers Do (Good Omens (TV) Fandom, Aziraphale/Crowley)  
> 5\. When You Wish Upon A Star (Good Omens (TV) Fandom, Aziraphale/Crowley)  
> 6\. New York Isn't New York Without You, Love (Harry Potter Fandom, Severus Snape/Harry Potter). Set in the same 'verse as [How We Were Warriors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897526).  
> 7\. on the salt sea (Harry Potter Fandom, Hermione Granger/Minerva McGonagall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If a single book can hold closely guarded secrets, Draco can’t help but wonder how many a whole library must harbour. The thought occurs to him as Harry Potter pushes him against the stacks cradling the Wilde and the Whitman, the Auden and the Isherwood, the Baldwin and the Forster. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Words:** ~900  
>  **Content:** Flangst, Internalised Homophobia, some experimental writing on my behalf ;-)  
>  **Prompt:** Written for my [Sunday prompt request](https://writcraft.dreamwidth.org/200388.html) for darling Julchen on [tumblr](https://julcheninred.tumblr.com/) who requested Library, Drarry and Secrets. Title pilfered from Whitman.

Draco’s father told him once that books hold secrets. Some books are to be kept carefully hidden in locked rooms, hoarded as a dragon might hoard gold and silver. Others hold secrets between the pages, their stories a veneer for some higher purpose ascertainable only to the most discerning reader. Others are written in secret and those books should never be opened by the unwitting reader that stumbles upon them. Diaries, for example. Lucius Malfoy was always very specific about diaries. 

If a single book can hold such closely guarded secrets, Draco can’t help but wonder how many a whole library must harbour. The thought occurs to him as Harry Potter pushes him against the stacks cradling the Wilde and the Whitman, the Auden and the Isherwood, the Baldwin and the Forster. 

_Secrets_. Quiet, like two boys kissing against dusty bookshelves. Hidden, like queerly beating hearts. Clutched close and jealously guarded, like the memories Draco will extract later to replay at his leisure. He can be honest with himself, at least, when he admits this is what desire is. He supposes that’s what the reader would call _internal monologue_. His is an ode to a boy he could have loved, if only he had the courage to love out loud.

“Did I ever mean anything to you?” Harry pulls back at last, breathless and uncertain. He always wears his bleeding heart on his sleeve. Draco envies him that.

“Not a thing,” Draco lies. He’s always hated an unreliable narrator.

“Feels like I mean something to you, _Malfoy_.” Harry kisses Draco again, chases away the words and keeping him pinned to the shelves, which is exactly where Draco wants to be. 

Harry’s more man than boy, now. His story’s one of legend, and he’s carved out a place in history. Draco doesn’t want his history recorded. He wants to burn the books that position him as _Death Eater_ as _Malfoy_ as _wrong_ , even if he knows now just how wrong he was. He chases away the thoughts and sinks into another brilliant kiss, hoping it has the power to wash away the stories already set in stone. 

“Come home with me.” Harry pulls back, all gruff whispers out of respect to the nearly empty library. The signs don’t say anything about snogging against the shelves and it’s not like the old days when Pince would give them detention. 

This library is different. Some fusty college in Cambridge where they found themselves on a ridiculous hunt for a needle in a haystack. A book on magic, that can’t fall into the hands of Muggles. The offending item is safely ensconced in Potter’s pocket, shrunk down to the size of a postage stamp. Another secret text. Words that could be dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands, assuming anyone learned how to interpret them correctly.

“Grimmauld Place?” Draco pulls a face. “No thanks.”

Harry thinks, brow furrowed. “I decided to get a room in one of the colleges, if you’d rather. I didn’t know how long this might take.”

Potter knew exactly how long it would take and spent money on a college room for one reason only. It’s something of a cliché, but Draco does hate to see good money go to waste.

“I hope there’s a television. In case we get bored.” 

Harry grins, heart-stopping-handsome and self-assured. “We won’t.”

It’s unclear if their story begins at the point when their kisses travelled down the spines of other people’s stories. Maybe it began much sooner than that, in the Slytherin common room during a final post-war year full of grief and rage. Earlier still, with a hand unshaken, a bitter fight in the Prefect’s Bathroom or a desperate flight through Fiendfyre. It could be that everything starts that night, in a small college room in King’s College, Cambridge, close enough to the chapel to hear the Evensong. 

The problem is, when it comes to stories, Draco has lived most of his adult life believing only in tragedies. The structure, the certainty, the inevitable climax. He likes knowing how things end. It allows him to go in fully armed. When Draco falls into a rickety single bed with Harry Potter he considers, just for a minute, that their story might be etched into the sky—fated—like those of the star-crossed lovers before them. Perhaps there isn’t an obvious ending, perhaps there never was. All he knows is that fucking Harry leaves him adrift, like a classically trained poet forced to experiment without rhyme, structure or verse.

Draco spills his secret stories into Harry’s fist, makes his ink-stained marks through bites, scratches, lips pressed against a beating pulse. The bruises he leaves this time are not indelible, but they’re enthusiastically accepted, even absent the promise of forever.

Is that where their story begins? Perhaps it starts later, in one of those clubs where the music drowns out the sounds of the things that happen in the shadows. Maybe it really starts when the promises made in diaries creep into dialogue, when _I love you_ isn’t such a difficult thing to say out loud. 

_Secrets_. Draco despises them, coddles them, harbours so many inside they’re bound to burst out rainbow bright, eventually. In the aftermath of the night, he decides he’s open to an unexpected plot twist.

A happy ending, perhaps.


	2. Reading Between The Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione revisits old correspondence with Minerva.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Minerva McGonagall/Hermione Granger  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Words:** 525  
>  **Content:** Nothing to warn for I don't think. A bit of a struggle with coming out perhaps.  
>  **Prompt:** Written for my [Sunday prompt request](https://writcraft.dreamwidth.org/200388.html) for [keyflight790](https://keyflight790.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

Watching Minerva McGonagall write is one of Hermione’s greatest pleasures.

It is, after all, how everything began. Letters written in a neat, unfussy hand, bearing the waxy Hogwarts seal. Initially advisory and professional, Hermione recalls the thrill when their correspondence became the intellectual sparring of two equals. 

The letters were Hermione’s outlet at a time of tumult, her greatest solace. She used the safety of the written word to share secrets too difficult to vocalise. She buried her longing in cursive script, let her dreams occupy the spaces between the lines as desire saturated the curve and curl of the words. She kept every response, together with all the letters never sent. She boxed them away with other hidden things. 

Hermione returned to them one lazy summer’s afternoon, finding a secluded spot in the grounds of Hogwarts, cloaked in the shadows of the turrets and spires. She read until ink and tears bled together on crumpled parchment. Her heart ached with the weighty reminder carrying truths she could only reveal in riddles and code. 

After contemplating the letters for a while longer, she wiped her eyes with a rough swipe of her hand and shrunk the correspondence to a pocketable size. She returned to the castle and paused at the open door to Minerva’s private quarters, watching her write.

“Hermione?” Minerva looks up from her work, an anxious note in her voice. “Are you quite well?”

“I am now.” Hermione closes the door carefully behind her. “I’ve been revisiting our correspondence.”

“I see.” Minerva flexes her hand and puts her quill carefully to one side. “Have you had the good sense to revise your opinion on the Lemmington paper?”

Hermione laughs. “Absolutely not. Have you had any opportunity to revise _your_ opinion?”

“To the contrary.” Minerva smiles, gleefully. “I remain more convinced than ever that my original opinion was correct.” 

“My letters—” Hermione pauses, trying to find the words as her good humour fades. “—My letters were full of question marks. I wish I might have found the answers before the grey hairs started appearing.” Hermione laughs, ruefully, and pats her hair. “It makes me feel rather stupid.”

“Ridiculous,” Minerva tuts. She watches Hermione carefully over the top of her glasses, before standing and moving towards her. “Besides, I’m not entirely sure I could have entertained this while you were a young researcher, even if you had left Hogwarts far behind by that point.”

“I like to think we would have found one another eventually. Like a story waiting to be told.” Hermione slips her hand into Minerva’s, closing the distance between them. “There’s something rather erotic about hands, don’t you think? The way they hold quills, the sentences they can craft…”

“Is that a casual observation, or are you trying to fluster me?” Minerva, quite unflustered, squeezes Hermione’s hand.

“What do you think?” Hermione asks, breathlessly. It’s always like this, when she’s within kissing distance of the one woman capable of making her body heat simply by talking. Rather inconvenient when you’re trying to win an argument. “You’ve always been good at reading between the lines.”

“Indeed I have.” Minerva pulls Hermione tightly against her body, and whispers against her lips. “Indeed I have.”


	3. Me And The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus is damned if Harry is going to go off walking around Hogwarts grounds by himself during a full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Severus Snape/Harry Potter  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Words:** ~900  
>  **Content:** Nothing much to warn for here. Severus is cross, Harry is irresistible :D  
>  **Prompt:** Written for my [Sunday prompt request](https://writcraft.dreamwidth.org/200388.html) for wonderful Torino10154 who prompted Snarry and left the rest open! A bold move. I hope you enjoy it, lovely.

It occurs to Severus as he watches a now adult Harry Potter chatting to prospective students about basic potions during an open day, that he’s nothing like his father at all. It also occurs to him that Potter is incapable of the finesse required to brew anything satisfactorily. That fact would have given him immense pleasure in the past, but his glee is somewhat dampened by the realisation that he has lost at least half an hour of his valuable time ogling Harry in Quidditch leathers. 

Severus doesn’t even like Quidditch unless Slytherin are winning, which they’re not now _Professor_ Potter is playing favourites. Harry isn’t even a Professor. He’s taken no exams, has done little more than vanquish a Dark Lord and wave his wand vigorously and often in Severus’ face, and yet has the title many would give their right arm to hold. Harry informed him, insolently and over a glass of mead, it’s _just a bit of a joke_. Something about ‘coach’ being too American, and ‘Harry’ being too informal. Severus stopped listening somewhere around getting horribly distracted by the lean dexterity of Potter’s thighs.

However annoying Potter’s fake titles may be, they are nowhere near as distressing as the way Severus finds himself getting maudlin over the curve of Harry’s smile. _Harry._ That’s another damned inconvenience. The insistence that Severus call the boy by his first name, requested off the back of a disarming smile. It’s as if they’re friends. Severus can’t abide friends. Minerva is tolerable, Albus—well, everybody knows how that ended—and Harry Potter? Most decidedly not a _friend_.

“Good evening, Professor.” As if on cue the man himself wanders into Severus’ quarters like it's an open bar.

“I see nothing good about it.” Severus glares, in the hope the foolish boy will take the hint and leave before Severus can become too diverted by long legs clad in dragon hide boots. 

“Really?” Harry moves altogether too close to Severus, taking a seat next to him. “It’s a lovely evening. Hogwarts looks brilliant at night.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “Next you’ll be suggesting a moonlit wander around the Great Lake.”

“Maybe.” Harry leans forward, eyes shining with mirth. “Would you be up for it?”

“No I would not be _up for it_ , you insolent child.” 

“Pity.” Harry sighs and puts a boot-clad foot over his knee which sends an aggravating warmth through Severus. It must be sunstroke, he decides. There’s no other tolerable explanation. 

“Is there a reason you’re here?” Severus gestures to his pile of papers. “I’m trying to work.”

“Oh.” Harry checks his watch—Muggle, of course. “It’s Friday night and nobody works after five on a Friday.”

Severus purses his lips. “Those of us that have earned our titles work whatever hours are necessary.”

Harry frowns. “The kids call me Professor because I don’t much like Sir or Mr Potter. Does it bother you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Severus lies, through gritted teeth. What bothers him more is the way the scruff on Harry’s chin looks better in this light than any other. “It's of no surprise to me that you would be bestowed with countless unearned accolades, whilst the rest of us that fought in the war had to pay deference to the Wizengamot to avoid a long stretch in Azkaban.”

“That was a load of bollocks,” Harry replies, fiercely. “I said they should never have—”

“—I don’t need your platitudes, Potter. As well intentioned as they may be.” Severus waves an aggravated hand. “I suggest you go and enjoy your walk in the moonlight. _Alone_.”

“Pity.” Harry stands. “I hear it’s a full moon. All sorts of things happen during a full moon. Weird compulsions, that sort of thing.”

Severus narrows his eyes. “What sort of compulsions?”

“I don’t know.” Harry’s voice takes on a breathless quality. “Sex magic, that sort of stuff.” He stretches, revealing a tantalising flash of his stomach. “Let’s hope I don’t accidentally get off with a Centaur.”

Severus stands abruptly enough to knock his ink pot over. “You’re clearly incapable of doing anything without constant supervision. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to stretch my legs.”

“I don’t think it would hurt at all.” Harry falls into step next to Severus as he stalks through the castle. “Thanks for looking out for me. Again.”

“I’ve never met someone so inclined to flirt with danger.”

Harry stops. They’re deep in the shadows of the castle and there’s not a glimmer of moonlight to be seen.

“I suppose I do like to flirt with danger,” Harry muses. “I’ve never been all that interested in flirting with safety. A bit boring, wouldn’t you say?”

Because Severus is not entirely immune to the ways of the world, he pushes Harry against the wall and palms the front of his trousers. _Gryffindors._ They’re always so obvious. 

“Have you considered what might happen if danger flirts back?” Severus asks, with a smirk.

“Yeah.” Harry bucks into Severus’ hand and yanks him closer. “I’ve thought about that a lot.”

Perhaps it’s the full moon, the Quidditch leathers, or the fact _Professor Potter_ can kiss like he’s taken a three-year degree in it, but when Harry says _let’s take this back to your room_ , Severus is all too happy to oblige. He thinks it only fair that Harry learn how danger, once flirted with—during a full moon no less—might get a little inventive.

It turns out Harry looks even better naked than he does in Quidditch leathers. There are worse things that have happened on a full moon Severus decides, when he’s boneless and satiated. Harry’s snoring isn’t intolerable and the daft smile on his face makes Severus’ heart give a fond kick that makes him wonder if there isn’t something in the air after all.

He tugs the duvet around his chin and decides to deal with everything else when the sun comes up.

Harry nestles closer and slings an impatient arm around Severus.

Severus closes his eyes and resigns himself to the fact this probably isn’t a full moon only sort of event.


	4. Like Lovers Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley find new ways to occupy themselves as they take shelter from a long overdue thunderstorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)  
>  **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Words:** 3,700  
>  **Content:** Getting Together, Romance, Fluff, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs  
>  **Prompt:** Written for my [Sunday prompt request](https://writcraft.dreamwidth.org/200388.html) for [s3dgy](https://s3dgy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr who asked for ineffable husbands, warmth and either Aziraphale's bookshop or Crowley's flat during winter.

Due to the length of this fic, I have posted it as a standalone AO3 post.

You can find it here: [Like Lovers Do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836067)


	5. When You Wish Upon A Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A hundred years is ninety-nine too many. It used to be possible to put centuries between you. Now every hour without him burns like dying stars._
> 
> Soon after The Apocalypse That Wasn't, Aziraphale asks Crowley to come for a picnic on Alpha Centauri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)  
>  **Rating:** Mature (ish)  
>  **Words:** 1,300  
>  **Content:** Second Person Narrative, Crowley POV, Angst, Self-Loathing, Introspection, Mildly Dubious Consent, Hopeful Ending  
>  **Prompt:** Written for my [Sunday prompt request](https://writcraft.dreamwidth.org/200388.html) for wonderful nia_kantorka who requested Aziraphale taking Crowley for a picnic on Alpha Centauri post-canon. I know you have enjoyed second person in the past Nia, so got a little experimental with this one! I hope you enjoy it.

Open his mouth and savour the flames of hell on his tongue.

It’s been so long you can’t remember what good things taste like. The fire tickles and curls around his body, drawn to the demon inside. The flames lap like sun-warm waves on shallow sands, finding their way into all the right places. Bathe in them. Enjoy the way they twist, curl and caress the crevices of your angel’s body. 

Let them tempt you, tease you, tease him. Listen, as his body responds. Wonder if he knows your soul is singing with them.

They want you to come home. 

_Bring him_ , they whisper. _Down, down, down_.

Suck in the flames. Spit them out with a hiss. Refuse to entertain them, even as part of you misses them when they’re gone.

Fall back to earth with a thud. Slide your hand down his hard, aching body, still singing its hymns for the damned. It is done. Run your hand over the cloth-covered hardness at the front of his trousers. Imagine it’s him, inside them. Imagine he’s yours to touch as you please. 

Wonder if you’re hard, or he is. Wonder if it’s all one and the same. 

Close your eyes to picture him tasting your lips, drinking in flame. Pretend you’re not worried that loving you might burn him up from the inside out.

Pull your hand back. Squeeze your trembling fingers into a fist. Leave your angel’s body restless, breathless, wanting. His body isn’t yours to touch. Yours is a fire he hasn’t agreed to light. Let the flames burn away to ember and ash. Breathe in smoke and dust.

Splash water on his face and find your own eyes in the mirror. _Guilt_. Recognise the strange, human taste of it. Notice the way it sits queerly on your face. Lick his lips with his tongue. Watch your own fork in the mirror. Close your eyes to taste him. It's better, when you can't see your mistakes staring back at you. 

Drink his wine, stretch out on his bed. Turn the ceiling into sky and think of ways to make him love you. Wonder if any part that’s demon still lingers inside you. Feel it whisper, crackle and burn with seductive promise. Know it’s still there. Waiting. 

It is wise to take time away from him. A hundred years of distance should do it. Go somewhere hot, somewhere cold, somewhere the soil doesn’t taste of him. Crawl, slither, go deep underground where you know he won’t come looking. 

It’s too painful, being close but not close enough. You have no idea how to pretend not to want him. Let yourself want him. Press his hand over the place human hearts beat. Know that wanting him started when the earth first turned. 

Take the right decision, not the wrong one— _I didn’t mean to fall_.

For once, don’t be selfish. Know your greed could swallow him whole. He wasn’t made for the shadows; the places where you linger. Let him be rid of you. Let him bathe in the light. 

Make another star for him, make another galaxy.

Watch the ceiling-sky burn.

*

You’ve never been a wise man.

A hundred years is ninety-nine too many. It used to be possible to put centuries between you. Now every hour without him burns like dying stars.

Settle in the familiar spot next to him where the sun’s rays linger. Give his body back to him.

Shudder at the dark things that worm within you when you’re back in your own human skin. Your soul sings again, rejoicing in the union of demon and chosen human form. It hated the part that was angel. It wriggled, fought and screamed with a fiery, futile rage that has been carefully stoked over a thousand different lifetimes. It hurts, being reminded of all the things you could have been.

Stroke your hand. Miss the way his skin never felt like scales. 

Watch the curl of his hand on his leg and resist reaching over to touch the place where his thumb meets his forefinger. It’s his body now, it's not yours to touch. You miss it already.

In your dreams, take his hand. Raise it to your mouth and press your lips against it. He is warm, like a hot summer’s day. His skin tastes sweet, like apples. 

Sink your teeth in. 

Make him yours.

*

_Keep your distance, Crowley_ , you remind yourself.

Move closer to him. Breathe in his cologne. Contemplate what might happen if you drop your head on his shoulder or put your palm on his thigh.

You’ve never been good at listening to your own advice.

You tell him _Alpha Centauri is always nice at this time of year_. Hope he doesn’t pick up on the way your tone slithers and twists. There’s disappointment in it. From before, from the things that won’t come after.

Last night you imagined a cottage with a garden full of flowers and a quaint, thatched roof. It stood too long in the sun and its gingerbread walls melted. The weeds strangled the flowers and ivy grew over the ruins of sunburned dreams.

Aziraphale knows you were hurt when he refused to run away with you. He’s trying to make things right, by taking you to the stars. He thinks it will show you how boundless time, space and place can be if the two of you are together.

See his efforts. Accept them. Don’t allow him to worry. Still his hand when he fiddles at the knot on his bowtie. Tell him _I’d love to go for a picnic, angel_. 

Watch how he smiles. 

Ache with it.

*

Aziraphale makes you a picnic on a blanket of stars.

He seems proud of himself, nervous and talkative. He feeds you the food you stopped eating long ago. There are moonbeams on his fingertips. _This is new_. 

Your tongue lingers, swipes over his skin. He stutters and his quiet moan travels through you like wildfire.

“Crowley,” he says. On his tongue and nobody else’s, your name sounds like a prayer.

He knows you’re damned. Knows every last thing about you. But he wants you. In spite of it, because of it. He _wants_ you. You can taste his need as well as your own. Moonshine and stardust. He wants you with the force of a hundred shooting stars.

Press closer. Open your mouth against his. Apples, strawberries, _things we lost in the fire_. Kiss him again.

He beams, cheeks light like sunbeams on water. 

Don’t talk. He’ll see the bold, bare, heart of you. He probably wants you to fuck like a demon. It wouldn't do to let him know how you ache to be filled, how closely you want to be held.

Imagine a cottage where the sun’s touch is a caress, a warmth through the kitchen window in the morning. Picture it standing strong and sure. Take another kiss like communion, silence the hellish voices that spit and whisper, begging you to take him.

Whisper to him. Say it against his lips. How you want to worship at the shrine of him. How you want him to take you, how you've built entire galaxies imagining it. Pour water on the wrong kind of fires, pick up your trowel and dig weeds up from the root. 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says, ineffably fond. “I think it’s time we get back down to Earth.”

Laugh with him. Let him take you there, somewhere new and strange where the bed is soft like clouds and the room is dark like a sky without stars. 

Fall. This time, mean to do it. Stretch out your arms and dive into the open midnight.

Trust that his wings are strong enough to carry you both.

Wish, upon a star.


	6. New York Isn't New York Without You, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus fully expects to enjoy a few weeks peace and quiet, and Harry will be back soon enough. He wasn't banking on missing Harry quite so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Harry Potter/Severus Snape  
>  **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Words:** 2,500  
>  **Content:** Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff.  
>  **Prompt:** Written for my [Sunday prompt request](https://writcraft.dreamwidth.org/200388.html) for Goddess47 who requested 'lazy, Snarry, any large city that isn't London'. Title taken from St Vincent's 'New York'
> 
> This is written in the same 'verse as my novel-length Snarry [How We Were Warriors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897526), set a few months after that fic concludes. However, no prior knowledge of the fic is required, other than knowing Severus has been living in a Ministry-owned flat in New York's Greenwich Village for several years, and by this point Harry lives there too.

Severus can hardly remember the last time he had such an unproductive afternoon. He’s used to working efficiently throughout the day, immersing himself in his research with ease. He rarely breaks properly for lunch, eating a hurriedly put together sandwich or salad at his desk, so as not to interrupt his flow of thought. In the past he would happily work through supper, remembering to eat only when his stomach grumbled, or he caught sight of the time. Now he has someone to share them with, he makes an effort to keep his evenings free, absent any urgent deadlines. Harry has little patience for Severus squirrelling himself away with books, cauldrons and dusty jars at the expense of sharing supper and conversation together.

Today is different. It’s not even three in the afternoon and Severus is bored to the back teeth of his books, distracted by silence he usually welcomes. He can’t focus on his papers and no matter how hard he tries to concentrate, the emptiness of his New York flat leaves him moody and restless. He never knew the quiet could be so _loud_. With a low growl of annoyance, he puts his quill to one side and closes his book. He slips off the new glasses he purchased for reading—Harry caught him squinting one too many times through his old ones—and stares into the distance.

He misses Harry, loathe as he is to admit it. They enjoyed a pleasant trip to England which went well enough to run a little over the planned fortnight. Severus left thoroughly content with their decision to return for a couple of months every year. Returning to Spinner’s End was far less painful than Severus expected it to be, after his years in America. With the assistance of Harry and an army of Weasleys, furnishings were changed, wall colours altered, and they even created a new layout with a few magical enhancements. The ghosts of Spinner’s End were chased away by good humour and tricks of magical interior design. When Severus turned the key in the door before catching his flight from Manchester airport, he found he was already looking forward to spending next summer with Harry in the warm, inviting house. Despite the success of the trip, Severus was eager to return to New York and his work. He encouraged Harry to stay in England a while longer, to spend some proper time with his friends without Severus always at his side. It’s possible Severus might have left England with a smug smile, suggesting he would look forward to a period of peace and quiet.

Returning to New York alone seems foolish in the extreme, now Severus is bored out of his mind and quite unable to concentrate as effectively as he had hoped. Severus wishes he hadn't put an ocean between he and Harry quite so hastily. He could have easily conducted his research in Manchester or at the Ministry, and would have been able to let Harry go about his business unfettered. The prospect that it might be difficult living on different continents for several weeks simply never occurred to him. At first, as he expected he might, Severus enjoyed being left to his own devices, but that only lasted so long. The solitude Severus once craved no longer held the same appeal after months living with Harry. After the first forty-eight hours back in New York, Severus grew restless.

It's been just over a week since Severus left England and he already misses Harry’s companionship. Peace and quiet isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He misses Harry’s chatter during the afternoon when he brings Severus a coffee and a delicious cake or slice of pie from their favourite café. There’s a little time before Harry starts his job with the New York Nifflers and he still treats New York as a tourist might, despite his decision to relocate to the city. He’s been taking full advantage of his free time, excitedly telling Severus about his morning wandering around the Met or capturing arty photographs of Grand Central Station. It surprises Severus to realise that as far as he’s concerned, Harry has become as part of the fabric of New York as Fifth Avenue, Times Square and the Staten Island Ferry. The Greenwich Village flat and its peaceful, terraced garden feels different without him. Things are just a lot more interesting with Harry around. 

Severus decided to treat himself to a supper at their favourite Italian the previous evening, but his mind wandered to Harry during his bruschetta starter and then again, as he tried to enjoy his carbonara. Even a delicious tiramisu—a rare extravagance—couldn’t stop Severus from wondering what Harry was doing in England. Perhaps he was out with friends at the Leaky, or visiting Hogwarts? Maybe he was being wined and dined by Kingsley or trapped in dull conversation with Robards? Severus decided by the time he paid the bill, scowling, that whatever he was up to, Harry would not be dining alone. 

With an aggravated sigh, Severus decides to abandon his work for the day. He’s spent so much time using his work to distract himself from thoughts of Harry’s absence, he’s easily back on schedule. The thought of spending another evening pretending to read articles doesn’t exactly appeal. With a _harrumph_ of annoyance at himself, Severus stalks out of his office and takes a seat on the sofa. He flicks his wand to Summon a book that he’s reading for pleasure, not for work, and slips his reading glasses on again.

Perhaps a lazy afternoon is just what he needs? He has a nice bottle of red he can open later, and he can order some Thai food from the takeaway he and Harry enjoy on occasion. _Harry_. Naturally the boy is proving as much of a menace now as ever he was. Severus shifts in his seat, a familiar heat travelling through his body and he curses under his breath. He refuses to have a lonely wank, just to get rid of a hard-on Potter has _somehow_ managed to cause from the other side of the Atlantic. A good dose of reading about Victorian-era London should do it. Lots of smog and sewage. Severus opens his enormous Muggle history book and glares at it, searching through the index for something appropriately non-arousing. 

Just as he’s about to really get stuck into his reading, a crack and a familiar surge of magic makes him look up, startled. He takes off his glasses and blinks. “Harry?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Harry grins and moves to the sofa, plucking Severus’ book from his hands and discarding it in an untidy fashion without a modicum of respect for bookmarking the page. He looks ridiculously good, with his shaggy mop of hair and broad smile and _god_ Severus has missed him. He drops his bag and pulls off his jacket, which Severus notices has a small pin from the GLBT Museum in San Francisco attached to it. The thought of Harry walking through London and spending time in the wizarding world with the badge so proudly displayed, makes Severus’ chest tight.

“You took the pin back to England.”

“Yeah.” Harry kicks off his boots. “You’ve only just noticed?”

“Of course not,” Severus lies. It would never do to admit he was probably too busy staring at Harry’s face, or other parts of his body. “Is there a reason you’re back so early?”

Harry straddles Severus in lieu of offering a decent explanation for his early return to New York. He takes off his glasses and puts them on the small table next to the sofa, where Severus discarded his a moment before he ended up with Harry in his lap. “Do I need a reason?”

“You know you don’t,” Severus scoffs. He grips onto Harry, greedily, possessively. It’s unspeakably good to hold Harry close again. The flat already seems full of him, warm and busy once more.

“Severus.” Harry’s voice is muffled, his lips working feverishly against Severus’ jaw. His deft hands open Severus’ shirt with ease. “I had to Apparate from JFK, as soon as I got through Customs. I’m so—” he trails off with a groan.

“Horny?” Severus offers. He sucks in a breath when Harry slides a thumb over one of his nipples. Without any further messing around, Severus urges Harry onto his feet before yanking him close. He wraps his arms tightly around Harry and Apparates them promptly upstairs, before it becomes too difficult to do so without Splinching himself. He disrobes them both with a brusque flick of his wand and a muttered spell, pressing a flushed and deliciously naked Harry against the bedroom door.

“Magic's brilliant, isn't it? Just _brilliant_.” Harry pulls Severus in for a fierce kiss, all tongue, teeth and zero finesse. It’s blissful, wet and wickedly good. Severus responds by grinding into Harry, kissing his neck, the line of his jaw and finally returning to his eager lips.

“Is there anything in particular that has you so worked up?” Severus miraculously manages to form a proper sentence once the kissing pauses so they can catch their breath. 

“You might say that.” Harry gives Severus a cheeky grin, before turning to face the door. He presses back a little, his breathing harsh and ragged as he glances over his shoulder at Severus. “Is this okay?”

Severus' mouth waters at the inviting way Harry’s legs shift apart and the delicious hardness of his cock. _Ah_. It’s one of those sorts of afternoons, is it? 

“I’d say it has its merits,” Severus replies. He casts a spell that leaves Harry slick, stretched and curling his hand into a fist with a groan of pleasure. They don’t usually do things like this—they both like to take their time and Harry’s fondness for Severus’ fingers is immensely flattering—but sometimes, needs must.

Harry laughs, breathlessly. “I’ve had a semi for most of my six-hour flight. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable th—” Severus cuts Harry off by pushing into him, hard, “— _ah!_ —oh _fuck_ yes, _yes_.”

“Better?” Severus grips Harry’s hips, his voice low and unsteady as he pulls slowly back and then thrusts into Harry again. “Good boy,” Severus murmurs, as Harry pushes back against him. 

Harry's fist unfurls as he presses one hand against the door and palms his cock with the other. He looks so inviting, so perfect in every possible way, Severus has never been more delighted about being old enough that he can avoid coming before they've even begun. Severus proceeds to take Harry exactly as he wants, drinking in the flex of his body, the perspiration of his skin, the way his damp hair curls at the nape of his neck, the ripples in his back, the clench of his arse. He uses the full force of his feelings for Harry to spur him on, his head spinning with desire, with want, with _love_. It’s so incredibly good to have Harry back, sinking into his body is like coming home. Their bodies fit so perfectly together, their wants and needs in this regard absolutely in sync. The familiarity of Harry’s voice as he murmurs all manner of filthy things slides through Severus’ veins like molten lava. Harry’s obviously taken the flight to come up with some rather inventive ideas. Delighted and more than a little turned on at the thought, Severus growls and thrusts into Harry until his sentences turn into a litany of pleas and curses. 

Their magic twists, curls and spirals and desire pulses through Severus as his climax leaves him with bone-shaking force, sharp and white-hot. He slips out of Harry, reaching around his body and stroking him with firm jerks of his wrist to bring him expertly over the edge. In the immediate aftermath they both use the door to keep themselves steady, moving only when they’ve caught their breath and righted trembling legs sufficiently to make the short journey from door to bed.

“I missed you,” Harry says, some time later. “I bet you think I’m a sentimental Gryffindor twit.” He smiles, sheepishly. His cheeks are flushed, his hair all over the place. He's never been more infernally lovely. 

“I think it’s possible I missed you too,” Severus replies. “Just a little.”

“Oh.” Harry sounds amused, tracing a line down Severus' chest with his fingertips. “Just a little?”

“A very slight amount.” Severus wraps a protective arm around Harry and pulls him close. The bed already feels more comfortable with him in it again. “Did you not wish to stay with your friends a while longer?”

“We had a good time.” Harry laughs under his breath. “I was a bit underfoot at Ron and Hermione’s. They’ve only got the sofa bed. I kept insisting I could go to Grimmauld Place or Spinner’s End, but they didn’t want me staying somewhere alone. It was nice, being with them. Just long enough for all of us, I’d say. I, err, said they could visit?” He sounds hopeful, if a little uncertain.

“It's only natural you would want to show your friends where you live,” Severus replies, easily. Harry relaxes immediately and Severus resolves to have a chat with him over the coming weeks about the fact Harry is no longer a guest in Severus' home. He might not relish the thought of Gryffindors and countless Weasleys traipsing through the place, but he also understands the necessity to compromise as Harry has, by suggesting they spend the majority of their time in New York. He knows enough of Harry by now to know he's not likely to have people visiting every five minutes. 

“Thanks. I was ready to come back,” Harry says, seemingly pleased to move the conversation away from future house guests. “I've had a craving for one of those bagels from down the road.”

“As long as you didn’t rush back on my account. I’ve been quite—” Severus trails off, not sure he can bring himself to say he’s been _content_. He also doesn’t plan to mention he’s been bored, lonely and miserable as sin. “I’ve managed adequately,” he settles for.

“I bet you’ve been forgetting to have lunch, as usual.” Harry sits up with a frown. “Wait, why weren’t you working when I got back?”

“I thought I might have a lazy afternoon.” Heat rises in Severus’ cheeks. “It turns out your distractions are less distracting than the absence of them,” he mumbles.

“They are?” Harry looks so pleased with himself, Severus feels foolish for not saying as much earlier.

“It appears so.” Severus sighs with resignation.

“Your afternoon wasn’t all that lazy after all.” Harry gives Severus a broad smile, before leaning in to plant an impertinent kiss on his nose.

“Stop that at once.” Severus pulls away, laughing, despite his outrage at the indignity of it all. _Laughter_. That’s another thing the flat has been missing. It feels good, loosening any last tension in his muscles and rumbling through him pleasantly.

“Come back here.” Harry grins and tugs Severus close again, insinuating himself back into Severus’ arms with a contented sigh. “I missed New York.”

“New York is very easy to miss,” Severus replies.

“I’ve not even been here a year, but it already feels like home.” Harry nestles closer to Severus with a yawn. “Does it feel like that to you too?”

“Yes.” Severus swallows thickly, tightening his grip on Harry. He cards a hand through his hair and closes his eyes, breathing him in. “It does now,” he says, to the sound of Harry’s light snores. 

_Welcome home, love_ , he thinks. _New York just isn’t the same without you._


	7. on the salt sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She tastes of salt, and the sea_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Hermione Granger/Minerva McGonagall  
>  **Rating:** Mature (for implication)  
>  **Words:** ~650  
>  **Content:** Romance, Kissing, Mild Cunnilingus Reference  
>  **Prompt:** Written for my [Sunday prompt request](https://writcraft.dreamwidth.org/200388.html) for Pauraque, who requested 'heroine, Minerva/Hermione and the sea' - thank you for this lovely request, I hope you like this little ficlet. Title and quote in the story pinched from Sappho.

“Minister Granger—” Minerva pauses, blocking a bright purple bolt of light with a Shielding Charm.

“Hermione, please.” Hermione slashes her wand through the sea air, directing a forceful curse at the unknown assailant. She sucks in a breath, lowers her voice to a whisper and puts her finger against her lips in a _shushing_ motion. “We’ve talked about this,” she murmurs. 

In truth they’ve had little time for talking. Their time has largely been spent fighting the good fight, as heroines must. That, and other things. The sort of activities two women holed away in a tiny cottage on a Cornish cliff might indulge in, to while away the stormy nights. _Tonight I’ve watched the moon and then the Pleiades go down_. Neither wished to sleep alone. 

“ _Hermione_ ,” Minerva tries again, as forcefully as one can when they’re speaking under their breath. “My actions have been unwise.”

“I hardly think that’s likely. You’re the wisest person I know.” Hermione’s voice levels, as sure as the tides. She pockets her wand with a sigh. “They’ve gone.”

Minerva takes in the quiet crash of the waves against the shore, the lapping of water, the whistle of the wind and the familiar _caw_ as seagulls begin circling overhead. The metallic taste of dark magic fades. In the aftermath the lingering spells slip away like storm clouds. The air is cool and salty, the scent of the sea replacing the acrid burn of violent spell casting.

“I think you might be right.” Minerva pockets her wand too, contemplating the sky. Despite the lifting grey, the sun is still obscured. “There’s a storm on the way.”

“Several, I’d say.” Hermione laughs, her eyes bright as she meets Minerva’s gaze. “Min—”

“Professor McGonagall,” Minerva replies, tartly.

“Minerva.” Hermione’s voice softens, a small smile on her lips. “Is this how it’s going to be, after everything?”

“No,” Minerva sighs. “I suppose not.” 

She’s faintly embarrassed by the way things have unfolded between them. Not on account of her age—Minerva abhors the suggestion that women of a certain age are supposed to forget about romance, desire, _sex_. She simply never expected it. Minerva is used to being prepared for all eventualities. Hermione Granger has taken her completely by surprise. 

“I think we should go back to the cottage,” Hermione decides. “We should have a good view of the storm coming in.”

“I suppose our work is done for the day,” Minerva agrees. There can’t be any harm in one more night. The rest, the talk, the possible undoing or cementing of it all, can wait.

“There’s one remaining thing I had on my list.” Hermione leans in, windswept beauty and self-assured seduction. 

“Miss Granger.” Minerva touches her fingertip against Hermione’s jaw and contemplates her over the rim of her spectacles. “I suggest you remove me from your to do list immediately. I am not a task one _ticks off_.”

“No.” Hermione’s breath hitches, catching on the wind that gathers and whips around them. “Although I’d hate to leave you…unfinished.” She smiles.

“Good grief.” Minerva shakes her head, laughing despite herself. “Does being in mortal danger always have this impact on you?”

“Not just being in mortal danger.” Hermione presses close. “I think it’s the sea air. Doesn’t it make you hungry?”

“A little.” Minerva takes a blissful moment to recollect the previous night nestled between Hermione’s thighs. The warm heat, the tang of her, the shiver and shudder of pleasure crashing like waves, over Minerva’s tongue, again, and again. _Yes_ , the sea air makes her hungry. She shakes herself as the first drops of rain pull her from her thoughts. “Indoors, I think.”

Minerva kisses Hermione quickly before they leave, lips cold and damp from wind and rain. 

She tastes of the salt, and the sea.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] we two boys together clinging](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20805821) by [julchen_in_red](https://archiveofourown.org/users/julchen_in_red/pseuds/julchen_in_red)




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